


Transstuck Davekats

by NothingSoDivine



Series: Transstuck [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Consensual Underage Sex, I'm Bad At Summaries, I'm Bad At Titles, M/M, Not a lot though, Oral Sex, Porn with minimal Plot, Transgender, Vaginal Fingering, WUZZLES!, cheers guys, ftm character, just sort of a vague mention of it, pretty much pwp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-04-03 04:26:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4086766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NothingSoDivine/pseuds/NothingSoDivine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I really have no clue what to call this, and I have no idea how to summarize it, either. The beginning of a series of Transstuck vignettes. Of course it'd be a Davekat near-PWP. In the words of the wise <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/Askerian/pseuds/Asuka%20Kureru">Asuka Kureru</a>: <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/297975">"Oh, self, what."</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Transstuck Davekats

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sweet Dreams](https://archiveofourown.org/works/717270) by [Kyraelii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyraelii/pseuds/Kyraelii). 



> Karkat Vantas: transgender, homosexual, panromantic. DFAB, uses he/him pronouns.  
> Dave Strider: cisgender, bisexual, biromantic. DMAB, uses he/him pronouns.

Ow.

You shift uncomfortably, trying to move in such a way that your binder isn't fucking up your breathing too badly, but it's kind of difficult when you've got the biggest, scrawniest, and yet somehow heaviest cuddlebug in all the universe lying half-on top of you.

How you managed to end up sleeping in the same bed as Dave Strider, of course, is - miracle of miracles - _not_ , in fact, a fluke. Hours of video games plus risk of smuppet attacks plus coming down hard from the morning's coffee had you crashing in Dave's bed at around one. But now that he's joined you, it's a whole other kettle of fish, and you woke to find yourself having painful amounts of difficulty breathing and a serious need to go to the bathroom.

You shift again, and Dave mutters under his breath, rolling over onto his side. As he does, the arm he's wrapped around your chest slides down to rest carelessly across your hip, allowing you to slide out of bed and tiptoe to the bathroom.

The light has a dimmer switch - thank fuck for that - but it's still too bright, so you're wincing like crazy for the minute and a half you're willing to spend. You wash your hands with brutal inefficiency, careful to shove up your sleeves first - it is _way too hot_ to wear three layers of cotton and wool, but you are _not_ taking chances. Except with heatstroke, you guess, but you're marginally more willing to take that chance than springing something like "by the way I have tits, sorry for not letting you know" on Dave at three in the morning and hoping he doesn't flip shit. You're still not comfortable enough around him to tell him, though you're fairly sure he suspects. He's not stupid.

You turn off the light and return to the bedroom, stumbling over something and nearly faceplanting back into bed. You're almost asleep before you hit the pillow, until you become aware that Dave is close. Like, really fucking close. You're pretty sure he's so close you're actually spooning now, which is starting to make a bit of a mess in your pants department.

You're also pretty sure he's waking up, at least partially.

You'd curse, but he'd hear you. You can't keep from shifting uncomfortably. Your tits are being _crushed_ , and you can't breathe. You're lightheaded, both from the heat of wearing two shirts and a sweater and the lack of air.

Dave mumbles something against your back, and you think he's talking in his sleep, because it sounds like he said "Take it off."

You lie still for a second, before caving and breathing out, "What?"

"Just take it off, man," he says quietly, tugging at the edge of your sweater. "If it's hindering your breathing that much, just take it off, I don't mind."

"Take what off?" you hiss, unable to keep the suspicion out of your voice even though you're barely using it.

"The binder," he replies, and you go stock-still.

You don't answer, and you feel him sigh against your back. "Man, you can't possibly be comfortable. If you won't take the binder off, at least take _something_ off, you're going to die of heatstroke. It's fucking July."

"How long have you..." you trail off, running out of breath.

"Figured it out just recently, actually," he replies. "I suspected for ages, though. Look, just... I swear it's not an excuse to get you out of your shirt, but you're going to fuck something up to a serious degree if you don't take something off." He sounds legitimately concerned.

You swallow. You're fairly sure he's not using this as an excuse to see you in less clothing, or at least not mostly. You're also fairly sure he doesn't know that you kind of wish he meant it that way. Still, you're not sure you'll feel comfortable in anything less than what you're wearing. He's never seen you in less.

"Please, Karkat, I get that you're not comfortable, but you'll be even less comfortable if you get heatstroke," he pleads.

You try to sit up, but your vision goes out and your ears fill with sand and you find yourself still horizontal when things come back into focus.

You swallow again. Your mouth is dry. "Help me out?" you rasp.

In half a second, Dave's wresting you out of your sweater, and you gasp when the air hits your mostly-bared arms. Dave barely has time to toss it aside before you're squirming your way out of your t-shirt as well, then your jeans, leaving you in just your boxers, your binder, and your tank top.

You flop back down with a sigh of relief. "God, that feels better," you admit.

Dave rummages around somewhere and produces a bottle of water. "Drink something," he advises. "You're probably dehydrated, and my Bro always says dehydration is the worst thing ever, so, yeah."

You smother a laugh by turning and burying your face in his shoulder. "You're a dork," you tell him.

"You're burning, holy shit," he says in return, grabbing your face to lift it off his shoulder. He brandishes the water bottle at you again. "Drink something, you dumbass."

You manage to get the lid off the water bottle without spilling anything, and you're nearly finished chugging it down before you pause to breathe. You swallow the last two sips and toss the empty bottle aside.

"Happy now?" you ask, but your voice is soft.

"A bit happier, yeah," he says, and okay wow yeah he is definitely wearing nothing but boxers. Welp. There go your plans for staying safely in the friendzone, and never finding out whether Dave's into guys.

"Hey, Dave?" you ask, trying and failing to keep your voice steady.

"Mhm?" he replies, already half-asleep again.

"I - never mind," you say. "Go to sleep."

He's probably out before you finish the sentence.

* * *

You dream that you're melting, your flesh burning away as something strangles you, wrapping tighter and tighter around your chest and you can't breathe, you can't breathe so you flail and thrash and suddenly you're on the floor, writhing around not half a foot from what appears to be one of Dave's shitty katanas (and why the fuck is that on the floor? but you can't breathe, you _can't fucking breathe_ ).

Your arms move almost without permission, nearly tearing your tank top as you wrench it off over your head. Your binder fastens under your right arm with eight miniscule hooks; you can't rip it off fast enough. Several of the tiny metal hooks clatter to the floor as you struggle your way out of it.

The second your lungs are free, you splay out flat on the floor, heedless of the katana an inch from your elbow, and just _breathe_. The air feels almost too hot in your mouth, but cold on your sweaty skin, and your anatomy stages a protest, goosebumps rising all along your breasts as your nipples stand to attention. You've recently gotten over the nausea that used to accompany seeing your own body, but the loathing is still common; now, however, you can't muster any feelings other than relief and the subsiding panic of claustrophobia.

Eventually, your breathing slows to a more reasonable pace, and you rise to your feet and slide back into bed. Your binder and tank top can stay on the floor; no way in hell you're putting either of those back on tonight. You curl up on your side, your back to Dave, closing your eyes and trying to drift back to sleep. You're almost there, too, when something jolts you back awake.

Dave's shuffled closer, that's what it is: Dave's shuffled closer, and now he's got an arm draped over your side. That's fine. You can handle that. You close your eyes again...

But then Dave wraps his arm tightly around you, pulling you snugly against him, and it's way too nice. His skin is lighting fires under your own, and the way he's slotted against you makes it really clear how hard he is right now.

Oh, fucking hell.

It would be easier to disregard if he didn't fit so nicely against you like this, as if you were designed to fit together. It would be easier to disregard if you were half-asleep, or all the way asleep. It would be easier to disregard if it didn't feel so _nice_.

 _Fuuuuuuck_.

You're about half a second from wriggling out of his grip and absconding to the other side of the bed or back to the floor, but then he grinds against you and the sudden noise that pulls from his throat is enough to convince you otherwise. You're not... taking advantage of the situation, per se. You're just... not objecting. At all.

Dave's hips press against yours again, and your breath catches in your throat. God, that feels _so good_ , how is it possible that just having someone pressed up behind you can feel this nice? Your junk is taking a very keen interest in the way he's moving. He keeps grinding against you, lazy and languid like he could go on forever, and _fucking hell, this is not okay_ , you _really shouldn't be doing this_ but you grind back, and he gasps against you. His breath hits you right between the shoulderblades with the way his head is tucked down, and you can't resist moving with him as he grinds into you.

Then he breathes your name and " _Holy mother of fuck what did you just say?_ " you hiss.

Dave goes completely still against you, and you realize you aren't sure whether that was in English or Spanish, but it doesn't matter, because you're pretty fucking sure it's woken him up.

He sighs against you, then suddenly tenses and jerks backwards. Your back is suddenly cold.

"Fuck, I am _so sorry_ ," he apologizes, and he sounds like people do when they're asleep and then wake up really thoroughly all of a sudden. "I'm sorry, that was - that was inappropriate, and, and disrespectful and -"

" - and you were dreaming about me, weren't you," you finish, and he stops in his tracks.

There's a very tense silence before he speaks. "How did you know?"

"You said _my fucking name_ , douchenugget. It wasn't all that hard to figure out," you point out.

He sighs, and as you turn your head to look at him, he hangs his head. "Shit," he breathes softly, resignedly.

You roll over to face him, prop yourself up on your elbow, and bury a hand in his hair. "S'cool," you tell him, before tilting his head up to kiss him.

He makes a confused noise against your mouth and flails for a moment before pushing you away. "Wait, what?" he manages.

"You're a fucking idiot," you inform him.

"Like you're not," he snarks back. "What the fuck was that for?"

"I like you," you say. "I'm horny, you're horny, it's the middle of the night, and I would very much like to kiss you again."

Dave swallows. "Go on."

"I really fucking want to make out with you right now," you admit, and he takes a deep breath like a drowning man.

"I'm bi, by the way," you add as an afterthought.

He snorts. "Kinda figured as much, what with wanting to make out with your best friend in the middle of the night."

He lies back, and you take the opportunity to scramble on top of him. The look on his face is somewhere between awe and hunger, and you really fucking want him to touch you.

"You are actually into me, right?" you gasp out as his hands trail ticklishly from your ankles to your knees, fingers sliding into the tightly folded spaces between your calves and your thighs.

"Yeah," he replies casually, rubbing one thumb over the scar on your right knee from the one time you tried shaving and ended up nearly de-knee-capitating yourself. Goddammit, his voice is sexy, especially when it's the middle of the night and he's talking in a bedroom rasp.

"Just thought I should check," you say, and he laughs. You love that he laughs at you when you're a dumbass, that he's comfortable enough to laugh at you. But right now, if he doesn't kiss you you're going to be thoroughly upset so you bury both hands in his obnoxiously pretty hair and drag him up to meet you, and he moans at the pull so you subconsciously file that little factoid away and kiss his smiling mouth until he stops laughing enough to kiss back.

"Why?" you ask between kisses as his lips soften against yours.

"Why what?" he returns, running his hands up the backs of your thighs. His skin sticks the tiniest bit.

"Why are you into me?"

"I have no idea," he admits, and as he sits up fully against you, gravity pulls you down so your cunt is slotted _right against his dick holy shit_ and your retort falls right out of your head with a soft little noise in the back of your throat that you can't entirely help.

You curse in Spanish and shift your hips, relishing the way his dick presses against you like you're two pieces of a perfectly-cut puzzle. "God, I want you so bad, Dave," you plead, and you're pretty sure you forgot to switch back to English there but Dave doesn't seem to mind. He just buries his head in the hollow above your collarbone and moans.

"Keep talking," he says.

"Touch me," you plead, and his breathing stutters against your throat.

"In Spanish," he begs in return, so you curse his name and manage a few helpless pleas in Spanish before he pries you off him and rolls you onto your back.

"You sound _so hot_ like this," he tells you, peeling your boxers off your legs, and you make a helpless startled cry at the way the words make your clit throb.

"Touch me, you incomparable asshole," you retort, in some muddled combination of Spanish and English, and he does, he runs his thumb up your slit and you're hardly breathing as he does it again. His fingers slide against your clit, and he's a little clumsy but you wrap your hand around his and guide him into a languid circular motion that makes your head spin. It is entirely unfair how wet you are right now. Your skin is burning, every inch of you is burning so hot that if it weren't for how wet your junk is you'd probably be in flames.

"Fucking damn it, Dave, I want you," you hiss in Spanish, and he shudders. His fingers make the most obscene noises on your junk. You drag him in by the hair to kiss him, and he moans, melting against your mouth. You can feel the pleasure building up, sharpening until it almost hurts. You beg him to go faster, harder, more, and he does, until you come, shuddering, with a noise you feel in your throat but can't hear over the way your ears have gone to static.

He doesn't stop touching you, thank god, working you through your orgasm until you nod and he slows his fingers to a stuttering halt.

"More," you breathe, "please, more."

"English?" he asks softly.

You curse at him. " _More_ ," you hiss.

He kisses your cheek, and it's devastating levels of cute. "Can I eat you out?" he breathes against your ear.

You whine. "Holy fucking shit on an octagonal skateboard, _yes_ ," you gibber in a single word.

He kisses you then, long and deep and with a teasing hint of tongue and _goddamn you want that between your legs right the fuck now_. You tug at his hair, pull him back so you can shove him where you want him, and he moans and lets you. Shuffling down the bed, he runs his hands up your thighs, giving you a wicked grin before leaning down and licking at your junk.

You take a shuddery breath, using your grip on his hair to force him closer. His tongue slides over your clit almost the way you directed his fingers before, in a clockwise spiral like the tension knotting beneath your skin.

"Hand," you order in clumsy English, and he reaches up, slipping one finger into you with more ease than you've ever had with it. His tongue speeds up, pressing harder as he crooks his finger, assaulting your clit from inside and out, and your legs go numb in the best way possible. (God, he's got beautiful hands.) You curse at him, drag him closer, dig your nails into his scalp, and he doesn't stop, moving steadily faster and faster and _faster oh god **Dave**_ -

It takes at least a minute for you to come down, and by the time you zone back in you realise Dave's got a second finger in your cunt and he's - oh god, is he doing that thing, the one he does at you all the time where he  _licks between his spread fingers yes he fucking is **fucking hell**_ , and you don't even care that you're probably smothering him in your crotch, you'll let him up for air in a mi _ohhhhhhhfuckDave_...

You're pretty sure you scream that time. You're also pretty sure, as you remember how to breathe, that if you don't get more you're going to implode. You pry him out of your crotch, toss him onto his back, and crawl on top of him.

"Condom?" you ask, voice husky, and he shakes his head. You curse.

Dave licks his lips. "Sorry," he says.

You grab his hand and practically shove it back towards your junk. "We'll manage," you rasp out.

He slides two fingers back into you without warning, and you moan. He gasps back as you start rocking your hips, one hand coming down to Dave's chest to prop yourself up, the other slipping down between your legs. (You're _so wet_ , holy shit.) You press two fingertips against your clit and start rubbing, hissing in a breath through your teeth and letting your head fall back.

" _More_ ," you order. The palm of his hand is pressing your fingers into your clit. You're not sure exactly how he could give you more, because there's a limit to how far you can stretch and two's the most you've ever been able to fit - " _Oh!_ "

His fingers are skinnier than yours, you recall absently. That's the only thought your mind has room for - his fingers are skinnier than yours, which is why he's got three of them buried in your cunt as you moan for him like the wanton little slut you are right now. It takes you a while to realise you're actually moaning words, a steady mantra of "Fuck me, fuck me, god, Dave, _fuck me_ " that's got him shuddering and breathless beneath you. You clamp down on the chant, force your tongue into submission, and rasp out one word:

" _Harder_."

Before you even register that he's obeyed, you're coming harder than you've ever come in your life, vision going white as you clench down on Dave's fingers hard enough that you swear if you paid attention you could make out his fingerprints. Your breathing is shaky, your entire body twitching with aftershocks as Dave slows the movement of his fingers until they finally stop moving. You gather the presence of mind to flick your hand at him, and he removes his hand, letting you flump down on your side next to him.

The two of you breathe in silence a moment before you realise Dave's still hard. It's only barely after that that you notice his hand, still slick from your spunk, sneaking down to slide under his boxers.

You sit up, ignoring how boneless you feel, and tug his boxers down his hips. His dick springs free, so hard it probably hurts, and you drink in the sight of your best friend lying before you half-naked with a raging boner. It's a good look for him.

He meets your gaze when you look back up at him, silently asking permission, and you nod. "Do it. Let me watch."

Instantly, his hand wraps around his cock, and you watch avidly, eyes flicking from his hand on his dick to his face, eyes shut tight and mouth open in a silent cry as he jerks off, hard and fast. You can't stop watching.

When he comes, it's probably one of the most poetic things you've ever seen.

After a moment, his eyes flutter back open, finding your face. He looks remarkably out of it. You wonder if you look the same.

"Hi," he murmurs.

You huff a little laugh. "Hi."

He closes his eyes again, making a satisfied sort of sigh in the back of his throat. "That was nice," he says dreamily.

If you didn't know exactly what he meant, you'd almost be offended. "Yeah."

He licks his lips. Your spunk is starting to dry on his face, and he trails his fingers through the mess of his own spunk on his stomach. On an impulse, you lean forwards and lick at his chin.

It tastes salty and a little tangy, and it leaves a bizarre aftertaste in the back of your throat after you swallow. He gives you a very strange look. You give him a questioning one in return.

"What?" you ask.

"You're weird," he informs you.

You shrug. "So?"

He considers for a brief moment. "Fair enough."

You crack a smile at him, then reach over to the shitty excuse for a bedside table and retrieve the box of Kleenex shoved into one of the cinderblocks propping it up, starting to wipe the jizz off his stomach. He grabs a Kleenex and helps out, and when he's clean (-ish) he takes the balled-up tissues from your hand and tosses them on the floor.

"That is so gross," you breathe with a sort of nauseated awe.

He just shrugs. "I don't have a garbage handy."

You roll your eyes in the universally recognized sign for "whatever" and lie down, snuggling up next to him. It's absurdly comfortable, considering how hot it is, but your sweat is starting to cool on your skin and you're stark naked, both of which are helping with the hellfire that is Texas in July. You bury your face in the perfectly Karkat's-face-shaped hollow space between Dave's shoulder and his neck.

"You reek of pussy," you murmur.

"Mh, good," he replies, and you pull a very scrunched, very grossed-out face. He snickers and kisses the top of your head.

"Get your spunk-face away from me," you snap halfheartedly, shoving at his shoulder but refusing to un-snuggle yourself from him.

"Shut up and go the fuck to sleep," he retorts, and you can't help but obey.

* * *

You wake way too early the next morning, and spend a long time getting that way as gradually as you possibly can. As you wake, you languidly notice several things.

1) Dave is gone.

2) The shower is running.

3) You're still stark naked - thankfully, or you'd be concerned - but sometime while you were asleep someone pulled up the sheet to cover you.

You lie there, awake, for another indeterminable length of time before rolling over and rising lazily to a sitting position, letting the sheet slide down as you stand and stretch. In the edges of your hearing you catch the sound of the shower shutting off.

Your clothes are sitting, folded, on the pseudo-bedside table - Dave's handiwork, judging by the way they're folded; like he tried obsessively to get them crisply folded and failed miserably. You're about to start putting them on when you notice something sitting beside the stack of your clothes.

It's a binder. Not one you recognize, either - yours is white, and the cheapest piece of shit you could find, but this one is black, and clearly fucking expensive. You've daydreamed about owning a binder this nice for years. It doesn't look new, but not worn out, either - just worn in.

A glance around tells you that your old binder is nowhere to be found.

A little hesitant, you wrangle your way into the black binder, only to find that it fits perfectly and is way more comfortable than your old one (even though it's still not all that comfortable, because you'll be honest, it's still a fucking binder). You are 99% sure Dave had nothing to do with this. You throw on your tank top, boxers and jeans, and head out of the room.

You find Dave's Bro in the bathroom, working gel into his still-damp hair. You never realised how much work he put into making it stay sticking up in the air - which is fucking bullshit anyways, since he wears hats all the fucking time. (Now there's irony for you. Also, he's thinning on top, which might explain the hats.) He's in a tank top and Oscar the Grouch boxers - you only notice by accident, and then you can't _not_ notice.

"Anything I can do for you, li'l man?" he asks without turning to look at you. He's probably not even looking at you, but you can't tell through his shades.

You lean against the doorframe. You kind of have to pee, but that's not what you're here for.

"Where'd you get the binder?" you ask softly.

His answer is just as quiet as your question, his voice the tiniest bit rough, as he doesn't stop fussing over his hair. "It was mine when I was a kid."

There's three heartbeats of silence, and then you step forwards, wrap your arms around his ribcage (it's the highest you can reach, he's fucking tall) and hug him tight.

For a second, he doesn't react. Then his arms come down and wrap hesitantly around your shoulders. He keeps his hands off you, probably because they're sticky from hairgel.

Eventually, Bro breaks the silence. "Easy on the snuggles, bro. Save some of those for Dave, yeah?"

Reluctantly, you let go and step back. Bro goes to ruffle your hair, but stops himself before he makes a mess of the hairgel on his hands. He checks his reflection in the mirror, runs his fingers through his hair once more, and turns on the tap, apparently satisfied.

"Just gimme a sec," he says, washing his hands. "I'll leave you to do your whatever-you-need-to-do, go make breakfast. Waffles sound good? Special occasion and whatnot, right?"

You knit your eyebrows. "Special occasion?"

He smirks. "Special occasion," he echoes, turning off the tap. "The deflowering of my baby bro."

"He didn't actually fuck me," you blurt before you have time to consult what little filters you have.

Bro just does that Striderian huff thing that translates as a guffaw in anyone else's body language. "I should hope not," he retorts, not bothering to dry his hands before ruffling your hair on his way past you to the door. "He doesn't have any condoms."

He's gone before it occurs to you to ask how he knows that. You sigh and start on your morning shit-to-deal-with routine, Casa de Strider edition. By your count, you have five minutes.

You can't help a small smile. You fucking love it here.

**Author's Note:**

> ... Dirk "Bro" Strider: transgender, homosexual, aromantic. DFAB, uses he/him pronouns.
> 
> I'm not trans, so if there's any advice anyone'd like to give me on that front, please do. Also, I didn't proof this one, so point out typos and I'll love you for eternity.
> 
> ETA: There was some confusion and a slight overreaction on my part regarding hooked binders. I would like to be clear that A) binders which fasten with hook-and-eye clasps do exist and are terrible, and B) I should not have gotten angry with people for not knowing that. I'm sorry.


End file.
